


Dismal

by xiubaekist



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One Shot, Semi-Morbid Plot, confusing timeline, implied schizophrenia, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiubaekist/pseuds/xiubaekist
Summary: It's always been easy with Lu Han, the only hard thing is letting him go.





	Dismal

**Author's Note:**

> for theluminations 2015 round. thank you so much to my partner for looking over this a dozen times and thank you to bella for betaing this (even if you didn't do all of it in time).

His days are dull and quiet, smothered half to death in bottles of vodka and ballad music he can only label as descriptions of his sorrows.   
  
His most occupied spot is the couch, getting up occasionally solely for a needed snack or another bottle of alcohol, and only managing to collapse midway in a pool of his own blood and tears. To him, this life is torture, and he doesn't know if he wants it anymore.  
  
His nights are bold and loud, a repeating record of screams and tremors. He thrashes under the sheets and claws at his own skin until he's bleeding yet again, causing him to wake up in a pool of more blood and more tears. To him, this life is tragedy, and he doesn't know if he wants this anymore.  
  
There is no grey area for Kim Minseok. There never has been. He either cares too much or he doesn't care at all. He either falls head over heels or hates with burning passion. There is no grey area for Kim Minseok. There never has been. There never will be.  
  
  
  
It's 8:00 A.M. when he wakes up on a cold Saturday. The alarm clock on the bedside stand gives off a light, musical humming that sounds like a broken electrical screech in Minseok's ears. His right palm swings back and slams on the snooze button, sounds of an omniscient pain struggling to be held back. His back is facing the door. He doesn't want to know if it's open or closed, and he wishes he could stop caring so much.  
  
Vodka bottles roll across the wooden floor when he shifts, and soon he's sitting. One hand clenches his cell phone, the other clenches a scrap piece of paper. A piece of paper he can't bring himself to throw away—one he can't even bring himself to put down for one moment. When he glances down at it, he feels like wincing. Small droplets of blood stain the paper from it accidentally cutting into his skin, and the words on it still break his heart to this day. The word “Always” followed by dozens of sloppily drawn hearts and a small phone number at the bottom. From the first day they met, head over heels drunk. The memory makes him want to curl up and die.  
  
The collar of his baggy night shirt slips over his right shoulder, proving it to be two sizes too big, revealing sharp collarbones and white powdery skin. His black, frizzy hair sticks out in multiple places. It's grown unruly in the months he's been locked up in here, but he didn't care. He didn't expect anybody to want to see him anyway. Though, to humor himself with looking decent for his reflection in the mirror, he ran his skinny fingers through the tangly locks, organizing the disaster his hair was with as much laze as he could muster.  
  
He’s suddenly struck with a panic attack, one of many since he hasn’t seen the light of day. His hands and knees start trembling, but he swears he’s sitting still. His forehead feels like an ice maker, but he swears it’s nearly 80 degrees. His heart rate is deteriorating, but he swears that it feels like a sledgehammer against the inside of his chest. He's slowly falling apart, but he swears he's getting better.  
  
The doctors didn't tell him, though, that false hope is the only thing that can kill the healthiest of people within the blink of an eye. Like the calm before the storm, all false hope does is set you up for a really bad fall; one you don't have a parachute for. A fall you convince yourself is the only way out; a drop through the clouds. A drop Minseok wishes wasn't so easy to accomplish.  
  
Because sometimes he'll hear his name outside the apartment door. A faint "Minseok..." that he douses in more vodka. A quiet "Baby, let me in." that he drowns in more blood. A silent "Please." that he suffocates with tears.  
  
Minseok will hear his voice, so close yet so far, and the words wrap around his neck tighter than any noose, choking him nearly to death. By now, though, he knows it isn't possible. He wouldn't be there, never in a million years. He’s gone for good. It isn't miraculous, it isn't life-changing. It's torture. It's tragedy, and he keeps wondering why he's the only one who feels like dying.  
  
  
  
His afternoons are all mirrors of the last. The same song plays on the radio until the lyrics are engraved in his veins and the same tear-stained paper cuts through his palm until the small wounds won't stop bleeding. He forces himself to trudge to the kitchenette. Two glasses of scotch. One gets poured down his throat, one gets slapped off the counter in anger. Minseok won't cry, though, not anymore. No matter how many times the tears prick the edges of his eyes, no matter how many times the feeling in his stomach is the equivalent of dying, he won't cry. Not anymore. The moment the door slammed in his face three months ago he swore it wasn't worth it. It never was worth it. It never would be worth it, and now it's clear, or maybe just a little less blurred; Minseok is just waiting for death—alcohol poisoning, exsanguination, even death by a broken heart. Just something.  
  
Minseok is waiting to waste away in the confinement of his safe apartment, but he knows he won't be pretty for his funeral; there won't be open caskets for the ones who break vodka bottles on their arms, cursing at the wrong person for the blood dripping on the floor.  
  
Then again, the more Minseok thinks “Would I even need a funeral?” No one would find him here if he died. His closest friend lives in China: Zhang Yi Xing. He doesn't get out much either, but he has the good end of the same situation. His reason falls under piles of college essay papers and love notes from a kid named Kim Jongdae, a Korean student in his psychology class.  
  
But Minseok, oh, Minseok. His reason was far passed the college essay papers cluttered among sticky note love letters. His reason was the bad end, of course. Far past the depressed break-up stage of a 16-year-old who lost their boyfriend to their cheerleading enemy; it was far, far past that.  
  
Minseok isolated himself a few weeks after the door slammed in his face when the last box of things he was so used to seeing was moved out for good. Minseok isolated himself when the last text said nothing but a bold "Fuck off."  
  
It was obvious from the first second, even his ex-boyfriend knew. The moment the door slammed shut, that was the last time he would be seen. By not only just him, but by the rest of the world as well.  
  
  
Minseok knows he doesn't get to pick and choose his fate.  
  
  
Sometimes envelopes slip under the door, signed in near perfect handwriting: ‘Kim Joon Myun’. His neighbor. They never hung out much, maybe a drink here and there together, but it wasn’t rare for Minseok to vent to Joon Myun about the problems in his life--and there were quite a lot, surprisingly enough. The one thing that was rarely talked about, however, was the short boy with pale skin and perfect hair that fell over his face on his phone background. He was regarded as no one, just a friend, but the way his fists balled up and the tears almost pricked at his eyes told Joon Myun otherwise, and the day the door slammed and U-Haul trucks lined up told Joon Myun definitely otherwise.  
  
The envelopes contained letters, but untraditional to the romance movies, they weren’t filled with heartbroken empathy and words of love and care. Instead, each one was just a check-in. A small ‘how are you doing?’ that would go unanswered, but never unappreciated. Minseok would read them and try to reassure himself he had a friend, someone who cared, but the sorrow always hit him again twice as hard as the last time, sending him to throw the letters in the trash with little to no remorse or self-control.  
  
It saddened even himself how he couldn’t fully appreciate the small things someone he never even let behind his walls did for someone like him.  
  
To him, he didn’t deserve letters. He didn’t deserve friends or support or any more love from any other human being on the entire planet. Since he left, Minseok didn’t deserve anything. All he deserved was solitude and closed curtains from the everyday sunlight. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
It bothers Minseok, though, that this isn’t the traditional romance movie. His friendly neighbor won’t bang on his door at 5 A.M. on a rainy Tuesday when he loses his mind and cries on the kitchen floor again to confess his undying love since the moment his boyfriend left him, maybe even before. His boyfriend won’t even come back in the end, he knows that for sure. He won’t come back with roses and their favorite coffee mix that tastes like summer kisses and winter hugs, a love letter attached that says how sorry he is, what a mistake he made. A wise man won’t meet him at the bar and teach him a life lesson about love. How oh so young he is, how he has so much more than a petty boy to look forward to in his life. None of these things will happen, and it bothers Minseok more than anything else. It makes his skin itch and it drives him insane. The very movies that calmed his heart as a child and rushed him into the arms of a college lab partner at the age of twenty-five betrayed him, lied to him. They made him think the boy with perfect hair and a beautiful smile would have a heart so pure there was no doubt of marriage.  
  
What a lie, he thinks. They lied to him, and they’re lying to everyone else as he stumbles up from his apartment couch to go to the bathroom.  
  
When the bathroom light flicks on, as every other day, the light makes him flinch. The light bulbs are no good, flickering a few times before they buzz on with that annoying eerie sound of nothing mixed with everything. Like whispers mixed with screams. ‘Do they actually sound like that?’ is something he tends to ask himself. ‘Or am I just insane?’.  
  
The mirror reflects the terrible quality lighting that does no justice on his face, forcing him to see his under eye bags and just how pale he’s gotten. He tries to ignore what he sees, crumpling the piece of paper in his right hand as he uses his other to turn on the cold water. Mumbles of half-assed self-encouragement come from his mouth alongside curses at the pain in multiple parts of his body, splashing the cool liquid on his face. He’s got a long day is ahead of him, he’s sure. When he glances at the clock he can tell. It reads 6:04 A.M. when it already feels as if it’s 10:00 A.M.  
  
When he finally gets himself back into the hallway, he kicks aside the empty bottles of vodka, heaving a heavy sigh. It takes him nearly fifteen minutes to reach the kitchenette. Once he’s there, he doesn’t really feel in the mood for eating, but he’s learned if he doesn’t he’ll end up sick on the floor for God knows how long, having the opposite of the time of his life. As he sits down at the table with a box of crackers, he realizes just how heavy his body really is to him. Lifting his arms and moving his legs feels like the task of trying to move dumbbells that are twice his size. Holding up his head feels like balancing a bowling ball on his shoulder, and the rest, well, just feels like dead weight, uncontrollably resting on the back of the wooden chair. Miserable.  
  
It's been twenty-five minutes and the sound of paper sliding on wood resonates through his ears. He flinches. One look towards the front door and he sees the envelope with perfect cursive on the front; it completely slipped his mind that it was time for that this morning. His eyes trail up a few feet to the clock on the wall. 6:46 A.M. is a new record for Joon Myun. It’s never been this early before.  
  
He heaves a sigh as he stands, dropping the box of crackers onto the tabletop once pushes himself upright. The sound of the birds chirping just outside the window accompany his walk that hurts every part of his body. The envelope is in his hands in an instant, and he rips it open. A white paper falls out accompanied with a pressed flower, something that's supposed to make him feel better. It never does.  
  
He doesn't need to pick it up to know what it says, but he does it to pass the time. A quick overview of 'are you doing well?' and 'come over if you need anything'. Minseok almost tosses the letter of 'little things' before his eyes stumble upon something new. Something the letters have never said before. Something he doesn't know how to react to.  
  
He throws it away out of compulsion.  
  
It's 2:00 P.M. when the hallucinations start again. The sounds of his name make him scream at the walls until he's sobbing again, his fingertips bleeding. He takes the time to think about all the help he needs as he's curled up on the floor, his tears drowning his words. Everything sounds so wrong.  
  
  
Lu Han was his name. Press the rewind button seventeen times and he's laying on the living room couch.  
  
7:47 P.M.  
  
The TV's volume is set to three and Minseok can barely hear the sounds of the gunshots from the action movie on the screen. In his lap is Lu Han's head. Perfectly soft hair, slightly curled and a chocolate brown. An extravagant contrast from his pale skin. His index finger pokes his cheek and Lu Han laughs. It's always so easy to make him laugh. Minseok thinks it's a blessing.  
  
Now, Minseok is at peace. He is happy, he is content, as he falls asleep with the love of his life in his arms.  
  
Unbeknownst to him, however, in less than 48 hours, he would be gone again. This time, for good. Boxes would be packed, U-Haul trucks would be called. The vase in the corner that has their anniversary date engraved in it will be shattered. Minseok will be shattered. Their life together will be shattered, but now, their breaths and heartbeats intertwine with each other's like there's no tomorrow. Unfortunately, there won't be one.  
  
  
Fast forward.  
  
  
It's 4:00 P.M. and Minseok is done crying. He broke his oath, but never twice. He's been kicking the vodka bottles into a pile since he got off the floor a while ago. He considers this progress, somehow.  
  
Another envelope slips under the doorway. This time he can hear Joon Myun's footsteps walk back to his own door. An extra one. He keeps it just in case.  
  
  
It's no longer easy with Lu Han as everything is broken and everything is shattered. Words Minseok never thought he'd say crossed his lips twenty dozen times. He's so confused about life. He doesn't know what to do anymore. Somehow everything feels ethereal when the door slams shut and the U-Haul truck is gone. Half of the living room is covered with shattered glass and torn up papers that now mean nothing. Lu Han's scent still lingers behind; a mixture of walnut coffee and daisies. It's over now, and the shattered glass doesn't get picked up. Everything stays as is for forty-two days, and then it gets worse. The vodka bottles that get mass collected once every few months begin to clutter and the scent of once true love is covered completely with smoke and ash. This is when the tragedy starts. This is when the torture starts.  
  
  
6:45 P.M.  
  
The only thing Minseok has been doing is staring at the door. The letters Joon Myun slips under his door come four times a day. One in the morning, one in the afternoon and two before bed. The morning and afternoon duo came, and he's waiting for the resonating footsteps to indicate another one of two would slide on the hardwood; the sound now easing his tense fists.  
  
His mind flashes back to what the letter said earlier and he begins to question if that one was a mistake. Was it meant for him, or was it for someone else? Minseok's breath is caught in his throat as he knows Joon Myun sends letters to everyone he cares about; it's just never been like this. He's never made a mistake, and he still remembers the cursive "For Minseok" at the top. He still doesn't know how to react.  
  
  
Everything was always so easy with Lu Han. Working, playing, talking. Everything was beyond so easy. It's like the two fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, never causing a disturbance in the other's life. Minseok was in love. From Lu Han's generosity to his laugh at 9:00 A.M, Minseok was head over heels in love, for the first time in his life. He never expected it to go down the drain so fast, yet so slow. If he was told that Lu Han would walk away so soon in his life, Minseok would have discarded his love letters and all of his recited confessions and left with his heart in one piece. He would have never let himself become like this if he had the warning signs.  
  
  
7:08 P.M.  
  
Minseok is sitting on the hardwood floor when the footsteps get louder. They stop in front of his door and Joon Myun leans down, slipping the envelope under. It hits Minseok's knee and he puts a hand down on it immediately, opening it in a rush. When his eyes look over the 'please eat well today' and the 'remember I care', he sees it again. The part of the letter he can't comprehend completely. The part that makes his head spin.  
  
He's almost read it 18 times now in a rush and he begins to hear the footsteps walk away. It was something new, something strange; but for the first time in months, Minseok hurried to the door and knocked for attention. The footsteps stopped.  
  
"Joon Myun..." Minseok whispers. His voice is cracked and he doesn't completely think he remembers how to sound out words, but he has to say it. He knocks again. "Joon Myun," this time it's a mumble. "Thank you."  
  
And then he runs away. He stands up, one of the two envelopes he hasn't thrown away in these months in his hand and he runs away. To his bedroom that's dark and cold, something he's far too used to. He didn't want Joon Myun to answer back, just yet.  
  
  
The more Minseok thinks about it, the more he realizes Lu Han doesn't love him. Through leaving in the middle of the night to be gone for days and only being affectionate when he's bored, Minseok knows deep down Lu Han is waiting to leave. He's just so in love with the boy with porcelain skin and chocolate creme hair that he doesn't care.  
  
This is where the real tragedy starts. This is where the real torture starts. Minseok just doesn't know.  
  
When he cries on the phone to the other line of Lu Han's voicemail, he doesn't realize how close he's getting to being left. When he's catching Lu Han kissing other men outside of taxi's that bring him home from strip clubs Minseok is so sure he works at, he doesn't realize Lu Han is waiting for one wrong remark from his lips to use against him and break his heart. Minseok doesn't realize any of these things until it's too late and everything is shattered.  
  
  
9:17 P.M.  
  
The day was long, just as long as Minseok thought it would be, and it's led up to something he's not quite sure about yet. For the first time in a while, Minseok showers and puts on fresh clothes that aren't too big or too small. He puts the envelopes in his pocket. His hair is in a tiny ponytail and he still isn't sure about any of this. He's not prepared. The voices in his head tell him this is a mistake.  
  
He knows he looks a mess even with his best effort. The mirror on his nightstand just sits and agrees. He doesn't know what else he can do.  
  
When he walks down the hallway at a normal speed (something so much faster than usual), he seems to get caught off guard. His head is a bit dizzy and his heart is pounding to his chest. If he didn't know any better, he'd call it a panic attack; only he didn't feel bad. He felt different. Strange.  
  
Minseok knew his decision to do this wasn't going to help him. It was only going to stress him out that immediate moment and break him down back into nothing, but he still had to try.  
  
A hand lays on the locks of his front door, sliding and clicking them off one by one until the door is able to open. He freezes for a few seconds before his fingers grip the cold metal of the doorknob. The small paper he held day in and day out that cut his hand and broke his heart, fell to the floor, unnoticed when the door opened slightly. Minseok worked his way outside. He did it.  
  
Footsteps to Joon Myun's apartment next door felt painful, and the knocks were even worse, but the smile he was greeted with when the door swung open showed him that the letter was true. He felt momentary peace.  
  
The letters Minseok had tucked in his pockets were different from all the rest. They were special. They were unique. Because for the first time in Minseok's time locked up in his apartment, no one was trying to comfort him. No one was telling him it was okay.  
  
The letters in Minseok's pocket told him he was broken, lonely and miserable and nothing might possibly fix it. The realization was all Minseok needed.  
  
This won't fix him wholly, this won't cure his pain, but maybe talking aloud instead of screaming at walls will mend his insecurities; just enough to let him fix himself.


End file.
